Life Without Parole: A Kate Conway Mystery (5 page)

“You could call Vera. She asks about you.” Victor said it to be helpful, and like most helpful suggestions, it was the wrong thing to say.

“Eight days,” I said again, and headed to my car.

By the time I got home it was just after five o’clock and already dark. I microwaved a chicken potpie, ate about half of it, and wrapped the rest up for the next day’s lunch. I changed into sweats and a T-shirt and climbed into bed to watch TV. There was nothing on. I flipped past a reality show about a family with twenty kids in which all anyone did was scream, spent a few minutes watching a detective show, and then settled on CNN.
Bad news everywhere. After twenty minutes I clicked off. It was only seven o’clock but I was seriously thinking about going to sleep.

Just as I was about to turn off the light, my phone rang. I assumed it was Ellen calling early, but it was a number I didn’t recognize. “Yeah?”

“Kate Conway?” A man’s voice.

“I’m not interested in buying anything—”

“I’m Ralph Johnson, the executive producer of a new show on the Business Channel,” he said. “Sorry to call in the evening but I’m in L.A., so we’re still on the clock. I’d like to talk to you about producing something for us.”

“Okay.” I was wary. Good-looking men, winning lottery tickets, and jobs don’t just show up unannounced. “How did you get my name?”

“You come highly recommended.”

“That’s nice to hear. From who?”

“Actually, I’ve seen a lot of stuff you’ve done. And we’re working on this show I know you would really like. It’s a new business reality show. It’s totally different. It’s about the struggles of opening a restaurant. It’s called
Opening Night
.”

He was talking fast, but the whole “totally different” thing was nonsense. I’d seen half a dozen shows about opening a restaurant, and I doubted anything the staid and traditional Business Channel would air could ever be defined as different, but a potential new client wasn’t something I could just throw away.

“When do you want to start shooting?” I asked.

“Next Wednesday.”

There it was, the catch I’d been waiting for. Booking a producer this late meant Ralph and his production team were either disorganized, cheap, or a nightmare to work with.

“I’m actually booked on something right now,” I said.

“With Ladies Productions.” He sounded confident now. “I talked with Lauren. She loves you.”

“It’s mutual,” I said. “So she told you I was working for her.”

“
But she said your next shoot was late next week. What we’re doing is just a day here and there for the next three months. We can work around your schedule.”

Tempting, but my gut was telling me to pass. “I appreciate the offer, but there are a lot of great producers out there.”

“The investors are some of the top people in Chicago business. They’re skittish about letting us in on the behind-the-scenes of their opening, so I really need someone who is completely professional,” he said. “And, to be honest, they’re also media savvy. Unless I have a pro in there, I’m just going to get back nothing but canned PR sound bites that will completely alienate my audience.”

Working with “media savvy, top Chicago businesspeople” sounded like a total bore, giving me one more reason to walk away. “I appreciate the offer, but—”

“I’ll pay your day rate plus twenty-five percent.”

I blinked, taking more than a few seconds to let it sink in. A television production company was willing to pay me more than I was asking. I knew it was a mistake. Every ounce of my body, every day of more than a decade’s worth of experience was telling me it was a mistake. But twenty-five percent more than my day rate was the urban myth of freelancing.

“Fine,” I said. “But I invoice weekly and expect to be paid within fourteen days.” That part was improvised. I usually invoiced at the end of the job and prayed I’d get a check before thirty days. Not an easy miracle, since several production companies seem to think that paying anytime before the next ice age is fine.

“Not a problem,” he said without missing a beat. “I’ll e-mail you the details.” Then he hung up, without giving me a chance to change my mind.

“I don’t actually know him,” Lauren confessed the next morning when I reached her. “He’s sort of a friend of a friend. He called me asking about you.”

“Looking for a recommendation?” I asked.

“Not really.” I
could hear hesitation. “He seemed more interested in your schedule than your qualifications.”

“So you didn’t recommend me?”

“Oh, God, of course I did—”

“No, Lauren, what I mean is he said that he had heard great things about me, but he obviously heard them before he called you,” I said. “So now I’m wondering who.”

“You’re great,” she said. “I’m sure he heard it from lots of people.”

“But you don’t know anything about him?”

Silence, then: “I’m sure he’s not a creep. The Business Channel wouldn’t hire him if he were. You could do an Internet search if you’re worried.”

“That’s a good idea.”

It was such a good idea I’d done it already, about ten seconds after I’d spoken to him. Ralph Johnson had worked on shows for the Business Channel for about five years, had won several Emmys, and had previously worked at ABC News. That didn’t help much.

All I knew was that someone had given me such a good recommendation that the Business Channel was willing to pay extra to get me. I should have been glad to hear I had a good reputation, but instead it made me nervous.

F
ive days later I walked into the abandoned bank that was being transformed into a high-end restaurant, and came face-to-face with my benefactor.

“Kate!” She rushed toward me with arms outstretched, putting them down only at the last minute. “Sorry, I forgot you don’t like hugs.”

“Vera?” I didn’t even bother hiding my surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m an investor in this restaurant we’re opening,” she said. “Didn’t you know that?”

If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have taken the job.

“No,” I said. “I wasn’t given a list of the investors.”

“I want you to meet someone.”

And with that she ran off in the opposite direction. I hadn’t seen her in months, but she looked and acted exactly the same. She was still earth-mother enthusiastic, with her graying hair a little longer than it had been the last time we’d seen each other. She was wearing an expensive cashmere sweater, but with a “This old thing?” casualness that comes from growing up with money.

Over the past six months or so, she’d left me a few messages, which I’d ignored, and sent me a Christmas card, which I’d thrown out. I didn’t dislike her, exactly. She was a nice person. But she was Vera. And I didn’t want a playdate with her.

“Kate, this is Doug Zieman,” Vera announced as she came hurrying back to me. “He’s also one of the investors, and he’s, well, my new boyfriend.” She blushed. Forty-one years old and she blushed.

I extended my hand. “Good to meet you, Doug. I’ll be interviewing you, and getting footage of your meetings and the construction, as you and your partners put together the restaurant.”

He gave my hand a weak shake. Not a good start. He was closing in on fifty, I guessed,
shy, a few extra pounds, with a dull, plump face and a slight twitch in his left eye. But he smiled at Vera with genuine affection. For reasons beyond my grasp, I was happy that he seemed to care about her.

“Vera really wanted you on this project,” he said. “She said you’re the best.”

I glanced toward Vera. “She’s very insistent.”

“So, how do you guys know each other?” he asked.

Vera’s blush was stronger now. “She’s Frank’s widow.”

Doug’s eyes widened. He coughed. “Oh,” he said. “I…”

“Yes,” I said, half to get through an awkward conversation, half to prolong it. “My husband of fifteen years left me for Vera, and then died four months later.”

Doug turned to Vera. “I thought you were together for almost a year,” he said.

“They were.” I walked away, leaving him to work out the overlap. I went back out to the street and found Andres and Victor unloading the van. Vera had apparently insisted on them as well, although I was the only one being paid more than my rate. I guess she knew I’d be a harder sell. But, it bothered me to admit, she also knew I could be bought.

“Hey, Katie,” Victor called out. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“It’s twenty-eight degrees. Wind chill off the lake puts the temperature at thirteen.”

He smiled. “I love winter.” He grabbed the equipment cart, and with a surprising strength for his skinny frame, lifted a large light box onto the cart with what looked like minimum effort.

I walked to Andres, who was fiddling with his camera settings at the front of the van. “What’s with Victor?”

“He probably got laid,” Andres said.

I laughed. Victor liked to fill us in on his conquests, while Andres and I quietly made side bets as to which were fictional and which were true. My guess was running about ninety percent fiction.

Vera came outside and she and Victor hugged. She waved to Andres, who waved back, then she and Victor went inside, arm in arm. It was
dumb to feel jealous, because it wasn’t as if Victor and Andres were going to leave me for Vera.

Andres’s voice softened. “Sorry about the other day, by the way.”

“No worries, Andres. We all have bad days,” I said.

“It’s Victor. He was late getting to my house. He did the same thing with another client. It makes me look bad, showing up late for jobs.”

“Have you tried talking to him?”

“Have you ever known Victor to listen?”

“Not so far, but he’s a good guy and he wouldn’t want you to look bad, so maybe if you said something…”

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Andres said. “You’re the client.”

“I don’t think I want to get in the middle of this.”

He shook his head, signaling an end to that conversation. “You up for this?” He pointed in the general direction of the restaurant.

“Vera? I suppose.”

“She’s a nice lady, really, once you get past the affair,” Andres said. It was hard for him, I knew. Out of loyalty to me, he wanted to dislikeher, but Vera was hard to dislike, even for me. Though I certainly tried.

In my heart I knew that Frank and I had screwed up the marriage long before Vera came into the picture. Maybe we could have found our way back to what had once been something wonderful, but instead he found her. It didn’t matter anyway, I reminded myself for the hundredth time. He was dead. There was no point in indulging in what-ifs.

Since his death, Vera had somehow pushed her way into my life and into the lives of Andres and Victor. Not in a bad way, not intentionally. She was more like a Saint Bernard jumping on his owner because he’s happy to see him. Without malice, but overwhelming and vaguely destructive nonetheless.

“I feel like I sort of inherited her from Frank,” I said.

“She likes you,” Andres said. “And I think she feels you have something in common, in that you both loved him.”

“I’m aware of her thought process.”

“At least this beats spending time with killers,” he said.

“The jury’s still out on that one.”